


the ghost of you still lingers

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: We all remember our first Doctor. Even Rose. And the Doctor remembers everything. | Written many moons ago on LJ.





	the ghost of you still lingers

_“I’m so glad I met you.”_

He’d said it with that balmy grin, the one that made him look rather daft. 

And she’d smiled in return as their fingers intertwined, because it would be impossible _not_ to, and even with the dead reaching for them through the bars, that loony smile of his _still_ gave her the most incredible thrill and rush of happiness. He was a joyful child when he smiled like that, the world’s biggest fool who didn’t care that he looked foolish. When the Doctor smiled at you like that, you knew that somehow, _somehow_ , there was a way out of the dungeons and mazes and traps and almost certain death.

The Time Lord’s smile opened doors and unlocked cages and defused ticking bombs. There was a magic to his smile, just as that was no ordinary screwdriver he flourished, no mere police box he lived in. 

_“Witchcraft!”_

No, just Gallifreyan. Just the last of the Time Lords being his brilliant, impossible, mad self. 

He would always be her Doctor, regardless of the face. That hand would always feel familiar and _right_ in hers, whether it was broad or long-fingered. But sometimes, just occasionally, she missed him. 

Her first Doctor.

She missed the glint he’d have in his pale eyes when he glanced at her in the middle of one of his monologues, as if checking to see if she was following him. She missed the reassuring creak of his leather jacket as they walked through bustling crowds on Alpha Centuri, arms swinging carelessly in unison, hands tightly clasped. She missed those hands, those big hands that could cover hers, the thumb that brushed against hers while he hummed. And she missed those big ears, that defiant nose, the way all of his features came together to make him goofy, or haughty, or noble when the mood struck him. He’d had one of those faces—a transparent face—where his every emotion was written plain for everyone to see.

But she missed his smile the most. The way he flashed his teeth. The crinkles around his eyes. The way his face lit up when he said,

_“Fantastic!”_

“…Don’t you agree?”

Rose blinked and looked up. “What?”

“I said that was a fantastic cake. The chef must have added an extra yolk, to make it that moist.”

“Oh, yeah,” Rose mumbled, pressing the flat of her fork against the last chocolate crumbs on her plate.

“Something on your mind?” He’d crossed his arms on top of the table; he was leaning toward her with an intense, penetrating look. There was something very hawkish about him just then, with his hunched shoulders and hair shooting out at odd angles from their windy walk to the bakery. 

“Doctor, before we met,” she began slowly, picking up her napkin and tearing at the edges. “How long were you… I dunno, travelin’ by yourself?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, I know others used to travel with you—Sarah Jane and K9, yeah? But that was before…”

“...Before the war,” he finished for her, face blank and voice neutral.

“Yeah,” she said, feeling very awkward and nosy. She _knew_ the Doctor didn’t like to talk—even think—about the dark days following the Time War. Knew that it was difficult for him: the aftermath and pain and guilt. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I just—”

“I honestly can’t remember,” the Doctor said quickly, looking down at the sugar pot and creamer, their empty cups of coffee. “Days blurred together; half the time I didn’t know what planet I was on, let alone the date. I went to the grassy knoll, I remember that, and there was Anastasia Romanov. There was a volcano somewhere, and I helped a young family on the Titanic. A few months, maybe, in terms of linear progression—well, as linear as time _can_ progress when you’re me.”

_How did you keep going?_ She wanted to ask it, but she couldn’t bring herself to. 

The Doctor looked up, caught her eyes with his, and his expression was so arresting and indefinable that her breath caught in her throat.

“Rose Tyler. Oh, Rose Tyler,” he said quietly, a small, sideways, knowing smile creeping across his face. “You’re magnificent, you are. C’mon. I know where to go next.” 

He reached his hand across the table, wiggling his fingers, and she caught it because it was his hand. And no matter what shape it took, it would always fit perfectly around hers.

\---

“What do you mean?” she demanded, the handle of the TARDIS door in her hand, the door itself half-opened before her. “What are you gonna do?”

“I think I’m going to stay right here,” he said, grinning. “Just sit right here and re-read my _Complete Works of Charles Dickens_. It’s been ages— _years!_ —since I’ve read old Charlie Boy, and I’m feeling a bit nostalgic.”

“But—”

“Go on! Weren’t you just saying the other day that you’ve always wanted to explore a proper mansion? Well, here’s your chance! An entire Victorian-style mansion, not a soul home, and you can have all day to poke in the corners and satisfy that curiosity of yours.”

Rose hesitated. “You’re sure it’s safe and everythin’? I’m not going to get attacked by bog monsters and have to run in these heels?” She lifted her petticoats to show him the period-appropriate footwear she’d chosen. “Because if I twist my ankle, I’ll give you a real slap.”

“There’s nothing dangerous out there—or, dangerous to you, at least. Scout’s honor,” he promised, raising his hand solemnly. “And I can say that sincerely, because I’m a highly-decorated Boy Scout on five different planets.”

She smiled at that—a wide, toothy smile that was pure Rose Tyler and would _always_ make him light-headed and giddy. “Alright, Doctor. I’ll be back in an hour—and if not, you’d better come lookin’ for me, got that?” She arched a dark eyebrow and waggled an authoritative finger. “I’ll probably be hanging from the chandelier by my fingertips or trapped in the attic, menaced by a tentacle creature from Balfour or something.”

“Have fun!” he called after her, waving cheekily.

\---

The first thing she noticed was how sparsely furnished the place was. There were lush carpets and Oriental rugs covering the hardwood floors, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with beautiful, flowing white curtains—but there was hardly any furniture. A cabinet here, a rosewood table there, the occasional sideboard or mirror or chair...

But no pictures, no nick-knacks, no sign that anyone called this vast, impressive place a home. It was as if an antique lord had begun to set up house, and then forgot about it a week later, leaving the mansion to the wind and the silence.

And yet, there was no real sense of neglect or decay, either. Everything was spotlessly clean—not a spider web or dust-bunny in sight. Someone cared about this place enough to see it maintained, at least.

As Rose stepped into the next room, her long green skirts whispering against the carpet, she began to wonder about the owner. This should be an old family estate, full of memories and old cigar smoke and the ghost of grandmother’s perfume. There should be children playing in front of the windows, hawk-nosed servants setting a table for afternoon tea, a dark-suited man clattering through the bottles of brandy and whiskey at the sideboard. 

_Where_ were they? What happened to the lord and the lady of the manor? And why had the Doctor picked this particular—

A sound intruded on her thoughts. Rose froze in mid-step, glancing quickly over her shoulder. Someone had just stepped into the next room, their footsteps muffled but heavy on the hardwood floor. Lifting her skirts, Rose hurried as quietly as possible to the corner behind the door, where a long drape offered a convenient hiding place.

Peeking around the curtain, Rose watched as a tall man entered the room. He was wearing a fitted black suit with matching jacket and a top hat. At this angle, in the first brushes of twilight, Rose couldn’t make out his face, but something about him felt incredibly familiar.

The man walked toward the white double doors that led out into a small garden, twisting the handles forcefully with a metallic squeak and pushing the doors open into a gust of chilly April air. The white draperies fluttered, billowing ghost-like around him as he pulled the room’s single hard-backed chair a few feet away from the windows and sat down wearily.

Everything about him suggested a great heaviness and fatigue. His shoulders slumped, his hands lay limply over his knees, his head was bowed as if in serious contemplation or prayer. There was something about his manner that made Rose think of a mountain—something large and grand and great that could sit silently for eons without so much of a tremble — or could violently explode without warning. 

Yes, there was something about him that suggested great strength and patience. And great loneliness, too. He seemed removed and distant, as if he didn’t truly touch anything around him.

As Rose studied him, she felt a prickle between her shoulder blades. This man was important... 

This man meant something... 

_She knew this man_. The slump of his shoulders, the shape of his hands…

One hand lifted suddenly to remove the top hat and toss it carelessly aside, as if it was no longer needed. And with his profile now clear, even in the half-light Rose recognized him with a mixture of happiness and a deep, profound grief that almost made her choke.

Before she could think clearly she’d stepped clear of her hiding place and three steps toward him, directly into the waning light filtering in through the billowing curtains. He looked up sharply, his pale eyes piercing her.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded roughly, rising from his chair. 

_That voice, that voice…_

“I— I’m just passing through,” she said lamely. It was impossible to think up a clever story when he was standing there in front of her, just as she remembered, staring at her with the familiar blue eyes that seemed a bit more distant and colder than she recalled. She didn’t bother to try to cover her noticeably modern London accent—she had never been very good at blending in with the local color.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Rose said quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a quick stop—the house was empty and closed up, and I’ve always wanted to explore a real mansion.”

When she risked a glance up, his expression had softened and his eyes were a degree warmer. He could tell she was being honest; that she wasn't being deceptive or a threat.

“I _would_ say you should be more careful about barging into strangers’ homes,” he said with a hint of a smile. “But I never could resist taking a gander at new places, myself. What’s your name?”

“I’d rather not say, if that’s all right,” Rose said after a pause. 

“Fair 'nough. I’m the Doctor.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Rose said somewhat breathlessly. He was still the same, still _her_ Doctor, with his easy words and friendly manner. “This is a lovely home.”

“Not my home,” he said, glancing up at the distant crystal chandeliers hanging high overhead. “It belongs to some friends of mine. I just came ahead to open it up for them—one last favor before I set off again. They’ll be home,” he added. “In a bit.”

“A bit, huh?”

“Ish.”

She smiled, and in the fading evening light it was if she was blooming, a pale pink light glowing from her skin. In that mint green dress, with those pretty blushing cheeks and her pale hair bound up in a complicated braided bun, this mysterious girl was like a flower given human form. 

“These friends of yours don’t seem to care much for furniture,” Rose said.

“Oh, that’s just because they’d been planning to move to America,” he clarified. “Had tickets booked on a lovely ocean liner and everything, but something came up. Cancelled their reservations and decided to stay in Jolly Old England.”

“Sorry if this sounds weird, but what’s the date today?” Rose asked. She felt something prickling at the corner of her thoughts, and what he said next confirmed it.

“Monday, April 17th, 1912,” he said after glancing at his watch, as if to remind _himself_. She _remembered_ that watch. A watch that never really told the time, nor the year—a watch that only made sense to him.

April 1912. Ocean liner. 

“When you came in here a moment ago,” Rose began carefully. “You looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Often do,” he said casually with a quirk of his lips.

“…I’m guessing it had something to do with the sinking. With the _Titanic_ , yeah?”

Something flashed in his eyes—guilt and sorrow and something darker. She’d caught glimpses of that darkness before: when he’d pointed a gun at her and the Dalek she’d been shielding, when the plague of gas mask zombies had seemed unstoppable and he’d shouted at her and Jack for being stupid humans, when he’d faced down an entire Dalek army and told them **no**. 

Yes, this was the Doctor she knew, the Doctor she loved, but there was something else behind his eyes. Something that he hadn’t come to terms with yet. Something left over from the War.

“Why do you say that?” he said finally, half-turning back toward his chair.

“Call it intuition,” she said, taking another step closer. She reached for his hand without thinking, slid her fingers against his and squeezed gently. He looked back at her in surprise. The naked, startled expression on his face off-balanced her, but she didn’t let go.

“You’re not just a passing traveler, are you?” he said quietly.

“In a way I am,” Rose said slowly. “Just… Listen to me, Doctor. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I _do_ know this: hearts _can_ heal. And I just want you to remember that pain fades with time. It might feel like it takes forever, and the pain may never leave entirely. But there’s enough goodness and friendship and love in the universe to make it all bearable. Sometimes all you need to get through the day is a good hand to hold.”

His hand tightened around hers familiarly, and though there was a liquid brightness to his eyes, he was smiling, — and it was that deep, heartfelt smile she had missed so much.

“There’s always another adventure over the next horizon,” she added, smiling in kind, her dark eyes flashing with warmth and encouragement.

“That’s some _fantastic_ advice,” he said after a moment. “I’ll remember that. A good hand to hold.” Slowly, her hand slid from his.

The sounds of a heavy door opening and several sets of feet interrupted them. There was another flash of that daft smile, this time with a heavy dose of mischievousness and daring. 

“Best be off, miss,” he suggested, eyes bright with excitement. “Seems the family’s home. Run!”

Rose turned, then hesitated. Before she could stop herself, she’d grabbed the lapel of his jacket, stretched to her tip-toes, and kissed his cheek. Then she was running through the closest doorway, petticoats and green skirt flying behind her, a smile bright on her face.

He reached up to touch the warm spot on his cheek where she’d left the lingering pressure of her lips, a ghostly benediction.

\---

“Did you remember?” she asked him much later that night, after she’d changed out of the petticoats and into an old pair of Punky Fish sweatpants and a pink t-shirt she’d picked up on Delta Gamma Five.

“D’you mean when I grabbed your hand in the basement of that shop, surrounded by murderous shop window dummies—did I remember you from that empty mansion?”

“Yeah.” She spread another dollop of jelly over her toast.

“I remembered you,” he said firmly, sipping the last of his tea. “But I didn’t make the connection, not right away. You’ve changed, Rose, from that night in London to today. And whenever I thought about that mysterious girl in green, I never could picture you clearly. There was always a light around you that blurred you, until you were just a smile and the memory of a kiss on the cheek and a few kind words about hands. But you know what?”

“Hmm?” She set her toast down.

“That kept me going. When Krakatoa blew its top and Jackie Kennedy was sobbing over her husband’s body, I remembered that girl in green—I remembered you. When I stared into the darkness of the universe, when I thought about the War—you were there, too, making things just a bit kinder.”

He reached across the table. She took his hand. 

He smiled.


End file.
